fernando
Thief
I'm purist and proud! I hate insistent people! And I only give opinions when I'm ASKED!!
Posts: 141
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Post by fernando on Aug 24, 2017 18:19:12 GMT -5
Lesbia
by Robert E. Howard
From whence came this grim desire? What was the wine in my blood? What raced through my veins like fire And beat at my brain like a flood?
Bare is the desert's dust, Deep is the emerald sea— Barer my deathless lust, Deeper the hunger of me.
Goddess I sit and brood— They cringe to my Hell-lit eyes, The wretched women nude I have gripped between my thighs.
As they writhed between my hands And the ocean heard their screams Firing my passion's brands As I dreamed my lurid dreams.
Their breath came fast and hot, Their tresses were Hades' mesh; World and the worlds were not; Flesh against pulsing flesh.
Their white limbs fluttered and tossed, They whimpered beneath my grasp And their maindenhood was lost In strange unnatural clasp.
Hours my pleasure beguiled The green Arcadian glades, As idle mornings I whiled With free-hipped country maids.
Under the star-gemmed skies That looked upon curious scenes I have spread the round white things Of naked and frightened queens.
What was it turned my face From brown-limbed Grecian boys, Weary of their embrace To darker and barer joys?
A miser weary of coins I wearied of early charms, Of youths who ungirt my loins, Restless sighed in their arms.
With many a youth I lay, But their wine to me was dregs. I found scant joy in they Who parted my supple legs.
I turned to the loves I prize; Found joy amid perfumed curls, In a maiden's amorous sighs, In the tears of naked girls.
These are the wine of delight— A girl's ungirdled charms, A woman's laugh in the night As she lies in my eager arms.
Goddess I sit and laugh, Nude as the scornful moon— World and the worlds are chaff Say, shall my day be soon?
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Post by deuce on Aug 25, 2017 10:59:24 GMT -5
An American Epic
The autumn sun was gettin' low, the day was mighty windy, When Hiram shot the hired man that kissed his girl Dorindy. Them two was in the orchard there, for apples birds was peckin' When old man Hiram hove in view and busted up their neckin'. The hired man he took it out across the fields and ditches But Hiram drawed a perfect bead and shot him in the breeches. The hired man he flagged it on, for he knew other ladies— But Robert Frost can write the rest, or he can go to Hades. ~ REH ~Sent to his friend Tevis Clyde Smith around April 1929. First published in The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard (vol. 1), June 2007
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Post by themirrorthief on Sept 1, 2017 2:26:52 GMT -5
The Gates of Nineveh
These are the gates of Nineveh: here
Sargon came when his wars were won
Gazed at the turrets looming clear
Boldly etched in the morning sun
Down from his chariot Sargon came
Tossed his helmet upon the sand
Dropped his sword with its blade like flame
Stroked his beard with his empty hand
"Towers are flaunting their banners red
The people greet me with song and mirth
But a weird is on me," Sargon said
"And I see the end of the tribes of earth"
"Cities crumble, and chariots rust
I see through a fog that is strange and gray
All kingly things fade back to the dust
Even the gates of Nineveh"
~ Robert E. Howard ~ I think I read once somewhere that there is a possibility that the historical Cimmerians actually took part in the destruction of Ninevah...that was a monumental event in world history. It took a united effort from several powerful and warlike peoples to destroy the Assyrian empire which produced so many powerful and cruel kings. Sargon the Great's empire collapsed around three thousand BC. Sargon the Great was kinda like Conan, he was the son of gardener who became a great King (although it was said his mother was princess who put him in a basket and let him float away from danger in the royal palace just like the MOses story...hmmm) There were at least two other famous Sargons. The destruction of Ninevah took place long after the collapse of Sargon the Great's empire, shortly after the death of Assurbanipal, one of the last great Assyrian Kings. I cant remember when the other Sargons lived...been awhile since I read up on the ancient middle east. Its fascinating stuff and there is a lot due to the stone tablets they left beneath the sands. Most of them have never been translated and thousand more are yet to be dug up. Obviously its not a safe place to wander around digging due to all the war over there.
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Post by deuce on Sept 29, 2017 22:05:38 GMT -5
SerpentI am the symbol of Creation and Destruction
I am the beginning and the end.
With my tail in my mouth
I am the Circle of Eternity.
Wisdom is in my eyes
And the dusk of wisdom lurks amid my coils.
My track circles the world
And I loop my coils around the Universe.
My head waves among the stars
And the nations fall prostrate before me.
Coiled, head upright, I am the spirit of the sea.
The world-shaking dinosaur was my henchman
And the flying dragons were my footmen.
The ancients knew me.
They reared shrines and altars
And I taught them dim, dusky wisdom.
I coiled in the ruins of Troy and Babylon
And on the forgotten streets of Nineveh.
The Norse called me Midgaard and built their galleys
Like a sea-serpent.
The Egyptians and the Indians called me Ysis
And the Phoenecians Baal.
I am the sea that girdles the world.
I am the first and I shall be the last.
I am the Serpent of the Ages.
~ REH ~
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Post by deuce on Oct 12, 2017 13:11:03 GMT -5
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Post by deuce on Oct 22, 2017 19:51:31 GMT -5
'Nowhere can the genius and vitality of Robert E. Howard be seen more than in his poetry. Brooding, stark, and elegant as the prehuman civilizations and jungle-choked fastness he created for his fiction, Howard's verse shows yet another side of this complex writer - a man compelled to sing of arms and men while the universe darkens.
It is superficial to say that his main talent lies only in the telling of memorable tales. Howard's artistic roots extend way back, past the English minstrels and French Balladeers praising their beloved forest and field, beyond those shadowy creators of somber lay and Edda, to the singers of ancient Greece and their stories of godly rivalry and human foible. He has at once continued this tradition and made it uniquely his own, melding old with new as he sings of solitary heroes battling beneath hellish suns or hoboes facing another blear-eyed day on the rails. deceptively rough-hewn, Howard's verse shines and sparkles with subtle nuances that linger in the mind.
You will find the best of Robert E. Howard's poetry in this volume; it runs the gamut from the melancholy narrative drive of 'Solomon Kane's Homecoming' to the mystic erotism of 'The Heart of the Sea's Desire.' We hope you will enjoy the work of this modern-day 'Singer of the Mist'; you will certainly remember it.'Foreward by John Pocsik, from Night Images: A Book of Fantasy Verse by Robert E. Howard, Morning Star, 1976. Good stuff! Thanks, Hun.
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Post by deuce on Nov 2, 2017 0:35:29 GMT -5
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Post by deuce on Nov 4, 2017 14:01:52 GMT -5
An excellent reading of "Dead Man's Hate":
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Jan 28, 2018 15:39:49 GMT -5
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fernando
Thief
I'm purist and proud! I hate insistent people! And I only give opinions when I'm ASKED!!
Posts: 141
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Post by fernando on Mar 14, 2018 10:00:47 GMT -5
At the Inn of the Gory Dagger...
(by Robert E. Howard)
From a letter to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. February 1929; titled with the first line in COLLECTED POETRY
At the Inn of the Gory Dagger, with nothing to win or lose,
With pistols thrust in their girdles and boots, guzzled the pirate crews.
There was Bill with the tattooed buttocks, and Tom with the timber leg,
And Barbarous Mike from Liverpool—oh, he was a tough, tough yegg!
Our goblets banged on the table tops, our laughter rose in a gust.
And now and then a shot cracked out and someone kissed the dust.
It made a man right nervous, ducking the cutlass cuts,
And every so often someone yelled with a sword thrust through his guts.
The hot oaths cracked the ceilings, the goblet burned at the lip,
And we reveled and killed one another in goodly fellowship.
Then up from a wine stained table, shouting for five more beers,
Rose Eve of the Sash of Crimson, the queen of the buccaneers!
And over across the tavern room, with a bellow coarse and rude
Rose Murderous Mike who called himself king of the Brotherhood!
“Here and at once,” Eve shouted, “We ’ull settle this case for all!
“With the slash of a keen edged cutlass or the crack of a pistol ball!”
For there was a feud between the two as who should rule the seas.
Eve stood with her skirt of scarlet that did not reach her knees.
She wore fine boots of leather that left her white knees bare,
A sleeveless, low necked jacket, and a ribbon in her hair.
Around her slender and shapely waist was wound her crimson sash,
Therein was a slender rapier, keen as a riding lash.
Murderous Mike was a mighty man, in knots his muscles stood,
He’d the name of the hardest bastard in all of the Brotherhood.
His arms were like the masts of a ship, bulging and iron strong,
And ’twas said of him that his penis was nineteen inches long.
“Hold everything, bold messmates,” said Anaconda Bill,
“Ain’t they no way to settle this, without you got to kill?
“Oh keep them deadly weepings alongside of your pants,
“And settle it the peaceful way, along o’ gymes o’ chance.”
“This is too deep for peaceful games,” said Mike, “It will not do!
“For mumble peg or tiddledy-winks, or matching nickels too!”
“Out sword, you crumby son-of-a-whore,” Eve challenged high and shrill,
“And I will cut your liver out and fry it on the grill!”
“Each man to his own weapon,” Mike answer straightway made,
“I will not use a sword or gun to master a saucy jade.”
“Then what, in the name of Satan?” Eve tossed aside her sword,
And all we buccaneers stood still, a wondering gaping horde.
He caught her close in his iron arms, while she cursed at her helplessness,
And he slapped her buttocks down on the board and lifted up her ’dress.
Then he drew forth his penis—an ox it would have felled—
And when Eve saw the size of it, she opened her mouth and yelled.
But though she kicked and struggled and did her very best,
Once it was fairly in her, she did not seem distressed.
And while we yelled and cheered them on, there on the board began
As fierce fought battle as ever was waged by woman and man.
A test of strength and endurance till the roof began to spin,
And still he could not wear her down, and he would not give in.
They jazzed till the sun came up in the east, they jazzed till the sun went down
Their muscles cracked and their brows were set in a death-or-victory frown.
The moon came up and the moon went down and the matter was still in doubt,
But she was growing stronger and he was wearing out.
And as the east was growing red, and the light of day came in
He tumbled off her onto his back and gasped, “Oh Hell, you win!”
And the sun that rose and glimmered over the distant leas
Looked on a humbled chieftain and the mistress of the seas!
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Post by Char-Vell on Mar 14, 2018 10:40:57 GMT -5
Now that's a sprightly little poem. Very sprightly indeed!
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Post by deuce on Mar 14, 2018 13:12:23 GMT -5
The Day That I Die
The day that I die shall the sky be clear
And the east sea-wind blow free,
Sweeping along with its rover's song
To bear my soul to sea.
They will carry me out of the bamboo hut
To the driftwood piled on the lea,
And ye that name me in after years,
This shall ye say of me:
That I followed the road of the restless gull
As free as a vagrent breeze,
That I bared my breast to the wind's unrest
And the wrath of the driving seas.
That I loved the song of the thrumming spars
And the lift of the plunging prow,
But I could not bide in the seaport towns
And I could not follow the plow.
For ever the wind came out of the east
To beckon me on and on,
The sunset's lure was my paramour,
And I loved each rose-pale dawn.
That I lived to a straight and simple creed
The whole of my wordly span,
And white or black or yellow I dealt
Foursquare with my fellow man.
That I drained Life's cup to its blood-red lees
And it thrilled my every vein,
And I did not frown when I laid it down
To lift it never again.
That ever my sprit turned my steps
To the naked morning lands
And I came to rest on an unknown isle-
Jade cliffs and silver sands.
And I breathed my last with a simple tribe,
A people savage and free,
And they gave my body unto the fire
And my soul to the reinless sea.
~ REH ~
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Post by deuce on Mar 24, 2018 2:22:41 GMT -5
Singing in the Wind
Singing joy, singing joy. Singing joy and sorrow - Hope and hate and honor cloy Riding down tomorrow.
Singing joy and sorrow. Sun or wind or thunder. Riding down tomorrow Till the sun goes under.
Through the skies where gulls lair Farther than men reckon - Riding down tomorrow where The sunsets beckon.
Men make their muddled rules. Song and law and story - Ride with all the splendid fools Laughing up to glory.
Laughing at the galley. Mocking at the mill; Singing up the valley When the dawn lies still.
Priestly hope and horror. Leave it all to him - Where is your tomorrow When the eyes grow dim ?
Future hope or sorrow. Taken at his trust - But where is your tomorrow When the heart turns dust?
Debts to life are paid in Song and curse and blow - All dim tomorrows fade in The sunset's glow.
Riding down the ages. Riding up the wind. Turn the yellowed pages. Bones of men who sinned.
Soulless, ghostly, vague, apart From all joy and sorrow - Will you leave tomorrow's heart For a priest's tomorrow?
Sing or curse or borrow. All that men have sinned; Riding down tomorrow. Laughing down the wind.
~ REH ~
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Post by deuce on Mar 30, 2018 9:18:02 GMT -5
The Ghost Kings
The ghost kings are marching; the midnight knows their tread, From the distant, stealthy planets of the dim, unstable dead; There are whisperings on the night-winds and the shuddering stars have fled.
A ghostly trumpet echoes from a barren mountain head; Through the fen the wandering witch-lights gleam like phantom arrows sped; There is silence in the valleys and the moon is rising red.
The ghost kings are marching down the ages’ dusty maze; The unseen feet are tramping through the moonlight’s pallid haze, Down the hollow clanging stairways of a million yesterdays.
The ghost kings are marching, where the vague moon-vapor creeps, While the night-wind to their coming, like a thund’rous herald sweeps; They are clad in ancient grandeur, but the world, unheeding sleeps.
~ REH ~
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Post by deuce on Mar 31, 2018 8:33:38 GMT -5
Larry D. Thomas is the Poet Laureate of Texas. REH scholar Paul Herman introduced Thomas to REH's poetry in 2009. Thomas was the Guest of Honor at Howard Days 2011. In the interview below, he has nothing but praise for Howard.
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